


Killing Me Suavely

by Lasgalendil



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Archivist Sasha James, Asexual Jonathan Sims, Autistic Jonathan Sims, Background Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Bisexual Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Office Party, Office Romance, Sexual Assault, Sexual Harassment, Spoilers for The Magnus Archives Season 5, The Magnus Archives Spoilers, Tim Stoker drinks respect women juice, Tim Stoker is a good bro, Trans Martin Blackwood, Ugly Holiday Sweaters, minor Gertrude Robinson/Agnes Montague, office bromance, pre TMA season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:53:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23938708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: “Oh, very well, then.” Bouchard sighed. “I suppose I’ll allow it.”“Right you are!” Stoker grinned, and turned to her. “What do you say, Sasha?” And that was the moment Sasha James decided they’d be—they were, in fact— friends.
Relationships: Gerard Keay & Gertrude Robinson, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Sasha James & Gertrude Robinson, Sasha James & Jonathan Sims, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 23
Kudos: 171





	1. Chapter 1

New job. Holiday party.

…so naturally, Sasha James was sitting on the floor in the women’s toilet, head against the tile wall, staring up at the ceiling, Not Crying. She fucking wasn’t. She wasn’t going to let some arsehole ruin her night, her job, her _life_ —

The far stall door creaked open. “Everything alright, dearie?” An old woman’s frail voice. The Archivist. Gertrude Roberts? Robertson?

“Y-yeah.” Sasha said, startled at the sudden interruption and more than a little baffled by her absolutely gory mess of a Christmas jumper. It proudly declared ONE HORSE OPEN SLAY in a death metal font, complete with bloodied reindeer and strewn human remains. It was… _discongruous_ , to say the least.

“A friend’s idea of a joke,” Gertrude explained with a twinkle in her eye as she washed her hands. “He’s a terrible sense of humour, but knits well enough, I suppose. It’s actually rather comfortable.”

“Right.” Sasha said, embarrassed to have been caught looking.

Gertrude frowned. “Are you sure there’s nothing—“

What happened in the girls’ toilet stayed in the girls’ toilet, right? Fuck, she’d run in here like it was base and they’d been playing tag at school, not getting sexually harassed at work. She shuddered. “Just hiding from some arsehole.”

Robertson patted her shoulder. _Actually patted her shoulder_. This lady was _definitely_ somebody’s grandmother. “We’ve all been there.”

“Really?” Sasha said. “I always assumed you were a lesbian.” She heard the words only once they’d left her mouth. “Oh, Jesus,I’m sorry—I’ve been drinking—“

“It’s the cardigans, isn’t it.” Robertson’s eyes glittered with mirth. “Ask me about Agnes sometime.”

Wait.

_…Wait._

Was Gertrude _hitting on her—?_

“Sasha, wasn’t it?” She continued. “Well, if the gentleman caller wants to be alone with you—“

“I don’t want to be in the same _hemisphere_ as him.” Sasha scowled.

“—then might I suggest retiring to Artifact Storage?” Gertrude prattled on pleasantly. “I’ve always found it handy for that sort of thing.”

“What? Romantic ambience?” Sasha scoffed. Artifact Storage was bloody terrifying. It’d only been a few months, but she’d already put in her transfer to the research department. She was curious, couldn’t leave well enough alone, but there was seeking knowledge and there was actively putting her life in danger, and she couldn’t—wouldn’t—die. Not yet. She had so much still to Know.

Gertrude only grinned. Beckoned her closer. Whispered, “Corpse disposal.” And for the life of her, Sasha couldn’t tell if she'd been joking or not.


	2. Chapter 2

Arsehole was grinding up against her on the dancefloor, relying on the fact she was a woman and wouldn’t want to make a scene, wouldn’t want to raise a fuss, these were her co-workers, people she wanted to like her, to respect her, she wouldn’t want them to think she was just another angry black woman—

Someone ran into them. Knocked Arsehole back. Sent her nearly sprawling.

“What the fuck, man!”

“Oh, so sorry!” It was that cheery Aussie Asian-looking guy. Jim? Tim? Somebody Stoker. From Research. Dancing drunkenly. “Didn’t see you there!”

She had half a mind to ask him for help, but she didn’t know him, not really. They were colleagues, but they didn’t even _work_ together. And academia was already such a boy’s club, there were no guarantees he’d take her side. It wasn’t like they were friends, or anything. Stoker didn’t owe her anything, and she—

…She couldn’t exactly depend on him for help.

It took Arsehole less than a minute to get up behind her again. Grind on her. Hands on her hips. Her waist. Her arse. She wanted to scream. Say something. Push him off. She wanted to stomp his insoles, elbow him in the solar plexus, turn and kick him in the knackers so hard he’d need a thoracic surgeon to find them—

 _How could no one notice_ , Sasha thought furiously. _All these people here how could not one of them notice._

It occurred to her they did notice. Either didn’t think anything of co-workers getting sloshed and dirty on the dance floor, or they knew, they looked and saw and _understood_ what was happening and they Just. Didn’t. Care.

At least until Stoker grabbed Arsehole by the hips began _very deliberately humping him._

“Get off of me!” Arsehole shouted.

“Oh, don’t be like that!” Stoker said, stone cold sober. “You know how it is, you get that feeling, you want to fuck someone, and you really don’t care if they give their consent or not because honestly they’re just something to bone and not even a person, really—“

“Stop touching me you creep!”

“Then I suggest you leave the lady alone.” Stoker’s smile never faltered, but his eyes grew cold.

“You wanna go?” Arsehole shouted, shoving at him like an angry child. “You wanna go!”

“Thought you’d never ask!” Stoker reeled him by the shirt collar and forced his tongue down his throat.

Sasha could only stare in mute…well, it wasn’t _horror_ , per se. There was disgust, sure, but more along the lines of Stoker braving the absolute biohazard of that fuckwad’s face. Was it humour? _Relief_ —?

“You fucking faggot!” Arsehole choked, wrestling himself away.

“Bisexual, actually.” Stoker beamed, giving him finger guns. “Have we learned our lesson or should we take this outside?” He smiled, a crisp, white row of teeth bright against his brown skin. “Been told I give a mean blowjob—“

The guy ran. Right into the pudgy ginger guy from Research. Ended up sprawled on the floor covered in mint sauce and wine.

“Oh, I’m-I’m so sorry!” Pudgy ginger guy—Marvin, maybe?—stammered. “I didn’t see you there!” And he spent the better part of a minute bumbling around making a nuisance of himself, hovering, apologizing, and generally making a scene as the guy tried and failed to get footing on the wine-slick floor.

And Sasha—like Stoker, like _everyone_ —was laughing.

...Everyone but that sullen, snotty guy from research. He’d watched the whole thing from the bar, emotionless. Did nothing.

Prick.


	3. Chapter 3

An email. From HR.

That was _never_ a good thing.

She could go to Gertrude. She could go to Gertrude and ask her to come with. To say something. To explain. But Gertrude was the Head Archivist, she wanted—no, she _needed_ —Gertrude to like her. _Respect_ her. Sasha wanted to transfer to Research, to the Archives. Become an Archival Assistant. Archivist. Head Archivist, even, someday, when Gertrude retired.

She was going to be fired, wasn’t she. She’d been minding her own business, having fun at the Holiday Party when some Arsehole had decided to harass her and had gotten hurt for it yet somehow it’d be _her_ fault—

Sasha had survived Uni and graduate studies. She knew the narrative, how this would play out: She’d had too much to drink. She’d worn a tight, little dress. She’d done her make-up. She’d put on heels. She’d come to the party alone, unpartnered. She’d asked for—even _invited_ —it. Surely she wouldn’t try to ruin this nice boy’s career over such a simple misunderstanding, after all _he had such a promising future._

She hadn’t asked Stoker to get involved, but he’d gone and done it anyways. Fuck it. It wasn’t his fault. And she’d kick herself if she let him and Marvin(?) the Pudgy Ginger Guy get sacked because of that Arsehole, too. Sasha grimaced. Went to the toilets. Took an antacid. Checked the time. Splashed her face with water, reapplied her lipstick, touched up her eyeliner, did a final check of her Game Face and steeled herself for the blow. Her mother always said look your best when you feel your worst, and she felt like utter shit.

She made her way to the staircase in the hallway. Heard angry shouting. Hurried up the steps to the second floor. The scene that greeted her was chaos: Arsehole, swearing. Rosie shouting. Marvin fretting and fumbling, Snotty watching with a vicious satisfaction and _Mr. Bouchard_ , even, looking bored.

“We’ve not had a chance to interview Ms. James yet but based on the preliminary evidence you’re suspended without pay, pending termination.” Rosie said sternly.

What? Sasha blinked.

“Oh, I’m quite content to proceed to termination.” Mr. Bouchard was oil slick as ever. “The evidence is quite damning. And The Institute, is, after all, a professional environment. Sexual harassment will not be tolerated.”

_—What?_

“This isn’t fair!” Arsehole bawled. “I wasn’t _harassing_ anybody!”

“Ah, yes,” Snotty intoned drily. “Imagine there being consequences in the age of the mobile phone. How unexpected.”

“Did you do this!” Arsehole demanded, grabbing his shirt.

“Jon!” Marvin cried.

“Rosie, call security.” Bouchard bit out.

“You take pictures, huh, you little creep!”

This guy. This fucking guy. “Drop him,” Sasha ordered. She’d fled in terror, frozen the night before. But it was different when it was someone else.

“I say,” Snotty protested, either unimpressed or entirely oblivious to this escalation and danger he was in. “This is entirely—“

Then Arsehole shook him. Hard. Just fucking picked him up and slammed him backwards into the brick wall. His head hit the wall with a crack!, his specs slipped and shattered, and for the first time there was fear in his wide eyes. That familiar mix of terror and resignation she’d not seen since schoolyard bullying.

Sasha gritted her teeth. She’d never tolerated it then. She wouldn’t now. “I said leave him alone!” She demanded. She had a foot and a good seven stone on Snotty, hadn’t asked him to get involved, either. It was her fight, and she would handle it. Arsehole wanted to get physical? Fine. Kicking his arse would be pretty damn cathartic.

Arsehole dropped him. Shifted all his anger on her. Behind him, Ginger Guy swooped in and steadied Snotty on his feet. “Just couldn’t take a fucking joke, could you,” Arsehole snarled. “Like I’d actually hit on you, you ugly cunt!”

He said another word, then. One that sent her gut reeling, made her vision swim with white hot rage. He’d insulted her. Assaulted her. But all her fear and worry and doubt had been burned away with the surety _he’d known exactly what he was doing_ , went after the youngest, the newest, the girl of colour least likely to raise a fuss, to be believed—

There was a smack! of fist on flesh. Arsehole went sprawling to the floor. “Naw, mate.” Stoker said, shaking out his hand with a wince. “You did this to yourself.”

“How come they’re not firing you!” Arsehole demanded.

“Too sexy.” Stoker grinned as security hauled him away. He turned to her. “Alright, Sasha?”

“Y-yeah,” She said, surprised to find she’d been shaking. Was still shaking. Not in fear. In rage. If Stoker hadn’t—

Honestly? If Stoker hadn’t intervened she might have killed him. Corpse disposal, indeed. “Yeah.” She lied, smoothing her skirt so he wouldn't see her hands trembling. “I’m—I’m fine.”

“Alright then. Drinks, everyone?” Stoker suggested.

“It’s um, it’s one in the afternoon?” Ginger Guy squawked in protest, still holding Snotty upright.

“It’d be entirely unprofessional.” He concurred with cognitive dissonance, wilted and rumpled and letting himself be clutched like a harlequin romance cover.

“Your specs are broken, mate. Not getting much work done, anyway.” Stoker winked.

“Oh, very well, then.” Bouchard sighed. “I suppose I’ll allow it.”

“Um, _what_ —?” Ginger Guy asked.

“Right you are!” Stoker grinned, and turned to her. “What do you say, Sasha?” And that was the moment Sasha James decided they’d be—they _were_ , in fact— friends.


	4. Several Years Later

Gertrude Robinson was dead.

Technically she was still missing. But it’d been a week, now, and according to the janitorial staff and the police reports there’d been so much blood—

Sasha wanted that promotion. She _deserved_ that promotion. She’d already decided to put in for it. It’d be awhile before the position was officially posted, of course. Gertrude had been Head Archivist for decades, been with the Institute longer still. It wasn’t as if the Magnus Institute was in mourning, but a position that high, held so long, well. It’d be gauche to seek a replacement too soon. It was ghoulish, she knew, but that was academia. The higher up positions only became available when someone on the rung above you died. She hadn’t known Gertrude, not really, aside from a few brief encounters in the lavatories, at the canteen, seen her staring down atrocities in Artefact Storage like a teacher would her wayward students.

“Did you ever meet her?” Martin wondered.

“I mean, once in a while. Only so many women’s loos, you know.”

“Sasha, you’re not saying the esteemed Jimmy Magma Institute has a problem with institutionalized sexism, surely?” Tim asked, hand over his heart. “I’m wounded. Wounded.”

“Your words, not mine.” Sasha laughed. “All I’m saying is I looked into the history and Wright wouldn’t let them remodel, something about the Institute’s precious architecture. It’s why there’s still only one loo per floor.”

“I still don’t see why.” he scoffed. “Just change the sign: All gender. No gender. Gender is a social construct. ‘We regret to inform you due to budgetary constraints, today’s gender has been cancelled.’” He said in a dry, put-upon voice that could only be Bouchard’s. “See? Not that difficult.”

“Right?!” Martin laughed in relief. “ _Thank you_.”

“You sure you want people looking when you leave the same toilet as the female staff?” Sasha goaded him.

“I leave the same toilet as the male staff all the time,” Tim shrugged.

“Er, yes?” Jon frowned suspiciously. “Why.”

Tim winked. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“Not at work,” Jon huffed. “Not _again_.”

“No.” Tim argued in disbelief. “I am shocked, _shocked_ you would accuse me of such a thing. I would _never_ be so unprofessional as to romance a colleague during work hours. Obviously, I was on lunch break.”

“Oh good Lord.” Jon said.

“And just to be clear, when I say romance, I mean—“

“Yes, yes, a sexual encounter _I know how reproductive biology works_ , _thank you_ ,” Jon snapped. “I am never using that loo again.”

“Wait,” Martin said, gaping between them. “Wait— Tim, you didn’t!”

Tim shrugged. Took another long swig of his beer.

“Join me in the ‘have to use a flight of stairs to find a loo’ club.” Sasha grinned, inviting them over. “C’mon. Budge up.” Martin scooted around, joined her on the other side of the round booth. “You too, Jon. Unless you _want_ to sit over there in pervert land.”

“I prefer to remain a neutral third party.” He stated archly.

“Aw, Jon, you’re always welcome to be a neutral third party with me,” Tim winked. “Anytime.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” Jon picked up his plate hastily, standing and walking around the table to join them.

“Ha.” Sasha said in triumph, slinging her arms around them both, grinning at Tim from across the table. Oh god, was she—she was, wasn’t she?— _flirting_ with him right now.

“Um, Sasha—?” Martin asked faintly, after a long, awkward moment, nodding to Jon as he just sort of…oozed out of her grasp and puddled onto the floor.

Oops. “Sorry.” She winced. Jon did not like to be Touched. Or seem to enjoy any other form of Human Contact or Interaction, really. He was always so irascible, but he wasn’t _cruel_ , wasn’t mean-spirited, just peevish: things always had to be In Order and Go A Certain Way. She didn’t consider him a _friend,_ per se—Jon didn’t seem the sort to make or _want_ friends—but he wasn’t unpleasant company, just a bit particular. No one had outright said the word Autism, but Jon had a rough enough time with Things Not Going Right and Not Understanding Social Mores and Endless Fixations that she’d placed him solidly on the spectrum. Tim and Martin liked him well enough, it seemed, and she’d never had any complaints. Still, he was less of a friend and more of a…well, a co-worker who happened to be a friend of a friend. If Tim or Martin did _anything_ , Jon was Just There.

“Sexually harassing the co-workers,” Tim tutted. “At a funeral. Shame on you.”

“You propositioned him fifteen seconds ago.” Sasha reminded him, laughing. “And technically it’s a memorial service. Post-memorial service luncheon.”

“Oh, in that case,” Tim drawled. “Alright, Jon. Moment of truth: me or Sasha? Or, you know, me and Sasha. Who am I to judge?”

Jon sputtered. Launched into an extended speech about processed foods and emulsifiers. Martin leaned across her, hanging from his every word.

Don’t laugh don’t laugh don’t laugh. “Wow, as much as I hate to interrupt this fascinating conversation on, er, _hydrophobic bonding_ ,” she interrupted delicately, “what were we talking about?”

“Gertrude.” Jon grunted. Soliloquy complete, he’d reverted to monosyllabic answers only.

“It’s alright. Recharge your batteries.” Tim said cheerily as Jon scowled at him. “I think it was more along the lines of queer revolution.”

“Liberating loos.” Martin chimed. “And stuff.”

“We could always just, you know, go on strike.” Tim said. “We’ll unionize, start a protest. Everyone in the same lavatories, equal toilets for all! Liberate the Magnus Insitute from the gender binary.”

“Gertrude did.” Martin offered. “Protests, I mean. Back in the sixties. Seventies. Rosie told me.”

“What, Gertrude Robinson?” Tim said. “Our Gertrude Robinson? Are we talking about the same Gertrude Robinson? The doddering little old lady who wore cardigans and pearls with matching spec chains?”

“She wasn’t always a little old lady, you know.” Sasha chided. “She was young, once.”

“Lies.” Tim insisted.

“I’ve seen pictures.”

“Prove it. What’d she look like?”

“She was kinda…hot. In an academic sort of way,” she shrugged.

Jon shot her A Look. “Hot.” He enunciated distastefully, as if she’d blurted A Very Rude Word.

“Yeah, you know, dressed like a professor. Actually managed to pull it off?”

“999, I just witnessed a murder!” Tim howled.

“Sasha—“ Martin protested.

It had been a bit mean-spirited, hadn’t it. “Jon dresses like a middle-aged man.” Sasha said in lieu of an apology. “He wears _waistcoats_. His jackets have elbow patches.”

“Maybe I _am_ a middle-aged man,” Jon argued. He had deep brown skin. Greying hair. A sort of pinched, haggard look and bags under his eyes that spoke of chronic stress and sleep deprivation. Honestly, he could be anywhere from thirty to sixty— which made it even more surreal he was six years younger than her. Jonathan Sims was still in his twenties. Hell, even _Martin_ was older than him.

“Sure,” Sasha shrugged. If Jon wanted to pretend he was a decade older for whatever reason, it wasn’t her business. Same with Martin’s CV. For whatever reason, they were here, and so long as they did their jobs and got along, well, who cared if they played charades?

“I still can’t believe you had a crush on our previous archivist!” Tim interrupted them. “Was it the grey hair? The old lady smell? The demure yet oh-so-inviting soft, snuggly cardigans?”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “She wore _pantsuits_ back then. Shoulder pads. She was a bit of a badass.”

“Propaganda.” Tim shook his head. “I refuse to believe this.”

“There’s pictures!” Sasha protested. She’d only sort of been making an archive. Of the Archive. For the archive. It seemed Gertrude hadn’t had much of a life outside the Institute. No family, no friends to speak of. The oral histories she’d been able to obtain had all been from former co-workers. The brief memorial service had been nice enough, she supposed, but they really ought to have—have something more. Something permanent up at the Institute. She remembered being young and frightened, hiding in the lavatory, and Gertrude had just, casually joked that she should murder. It had been a kindness unlooked for. She was going to be the next Head Archivist, it felt only right to pay her respects.

Tim leaned over, stage whispered to Jon, “I can’t believe Sasha’s a conspiracy nut.”

“And you, Martin?” Sasha ignored the bait. “Did you ever meet her?”

“The only real conversation I had was back at the office party?” Martin admitted. “Just, you know, small talk.”

“You’d said something about her jumper.” Jon frowned. “Told it her it was hideous, then spent five minutes explaining why in context you’d meant delightful.”

“Oh. Oh! Right.” Martin said. “The er, the reindeer accident victim thing.”

“It _was_ gory.” Sasha shuddered.

“Yeah.” Tim agreed. “Weirdest thing.”

“You were wearing a red and green plaid suit. With a tweed waistcoat.” Martin frowned at Jon. “You were still wearing it the next day. When we all went out.”

“He _was_ still it the next day.” Tim said with terrifying glee. “You went home with someone!”

“I don’t—he—what—he wouldn’t—would you?” Martin protested.

“… _Jon_.” Tim pressed at his sullen silence.

“The Archives.”

“You what,” Tim asked, even more delighted.

“I _slept_ at the The Archives.” Jon scowled.

“With who?” Tim pressed.

“With _whom_.” Jon’s scowl deepened.

“Ha!” Tim nearly shouted. “I knew it.”

“Oh. Oh, Good.” Martin muttered to himself. These two!

“That was the night we met. Well, properly met.” Sasha said, anything to break the awkward silence. It had become increasingly apparent that 1) Martin was gone on Jon and 2) Jonathan Sims bloody well knew, was just being a dick, not even _pretending_ to ignore it or to let him down easy—

Or—

Or oh, bloody fucking shit. They had to be _joking_ her. But no, Sasha realized with a groan. It wasn’t a _no_ , not a rejection, it was just…Jon. How he dealt with the romantic attention. Any affection, really. He bristled like a cornered cat, treated every exchange with equal parts bafflement, rage, and a final begrudging acceptance. Jon not going off on Martin for being… well, a hopelessly bumbling, love-struck idiot? That was Jon’s twitchy way of saying he _tolerated him._

From Jon, that wasn’t just a compliment. It was practically a _wedding vow._ Sasha found herself grinning at the two of them like a fool.

“What?” Jon asked testily.

“Oh, nothing. Just…reminiscing.” She lied. “That was the night you filmed it. Got that Arsehole fired. My hero.”

“Technically, we were all involved.” Tim said.

“Not me. I didn’t do anything.” Martin frowned.

“Yeah, you did.” Tim chuckled heartily. “Tripped him. Bloody brilliant.”

Martin flushed. “I um, er, it actually _was_ just an accident. I sort of…went with it.”

“It was still amazing.” Sasha assured him. “Thank you.” She turned to Jon. “But you? You just sat there.”

“Well, he obviously wasn’t going to listen to me.” Jon scoffed. “And Tim had it handled.”

“You mean handsy,” Tim winked. Jon glowered.

“You—you really surprised me.” Sasha said, more warmly that she’d intended. “I really thought—I had thought you were just ignoring it.” Ignoring Martin. “That you didn’t care.”

Jon’s gaze sharpened, suspicious.

“Jon wouldn’t!” Martin protested.

“Certainly not.” he scoffed, launching off again about egg whites and mustard seed and mucilage, Martin watching with attentive, adoring eyes. Tim caught her gaze. Made talky hands. He was…he wasn’t hitting on her per se, but he was _definitely_ flirting. Keeping his distance, being polite, letting her know the invitation was—as it had always been— open.

She felt her heart speed up. Face flush. Yeah, she’d definitely soaked herself. It was so inappropriate. They were at a funeral—a memorial luncheon, technically—and here she was _having massive pants feelings_.

...But somehow, somehow, she knew Gertrude “Ask Me About Agnes” Robinson wouldn’t disapprove. It was a strange universe, but this was Immutable Fact: the Earth turned, the Sun rose and set, and Sasha James was maybe a little bit in love with Tim Stoker, and had been for a long, long while. It was her nature. It was his. She couldn’t bring herself to hate him for it.

She and Tim had sort of danced around it for years, now. Played will they, won’t they. Jon and Martin were playing an entirely different game. They Hadn’t, and Wouldn’t, but they _Were_. Jon droned on about emulsifiers, and Martin listened raptly, hands under his chin, hanging off every word. Oversharing information he found interesting was, apparently, the only way Jon knew how to express affection—and right now he was _showering_ Martin in it.

It was bloody adorable. And it worked for them, in its own weird way. “Ah.” Tim sighed, catching her looking. “Young love.”

“He’s gay,” Sasha said in chagrin. “And for that?”

“Jon? Or Martin?”

“Both of them. I mean, before today I always sort of thought Jon _hated_ him.”

“They’re a bickering old couple.” Tim shook his head. “Poor fuckers. Martin could do so much better.”

“Jealous, are we?”

“Me? Never. I’m shocked you would say such a thing.”

“Liar.”

He grinned. Beckoned her closer. “You don’t know about my secret plan.”

She raised an eyebrow. Put a hand over her heart. “To seduce poor Martin away?”

“Me? A homewrecker?” Tim scoffed. “I’m not seducing anyone _away_ , just…offering my services as they are. Swoop in. Save the day. Solve all that awkward, unresolved sexual tension.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Sasha shook her head. And, worse, he knew it. Tim _knew_ Jon was ace, had known for a long time, and gave him shit about it not to bully him, but because they were _friends_. Jon was ace. Tim was what, pan? Poly? And they could banter/bicker back and forth comfortably, insulting and teasing and taking the mick out of each other. He was—

…A really good friend. A really great guy.

“Bisexual,” he winked, as if on cue.

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive, you know.”

Fuck, she was going to sleep with him, wasn’t she? She was going to make her excuses, leave Martin to a romantic evening of Jon’s waxing poetic about legumes or whatever it the hell it was that bound non-dairy ice cream products, and take Tim Stoker home. Leave off regrets til morning.

…They were friends. They were adults. Whatever came after, they would handle it.

**Author's Note:**

> TMA is an office rom-com I don't make the rules.


End file.
